


All Good Things...

by AnnaFaie



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-10-25 00:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFaie/pseuds/AnnaFaie
Summary: The 2022 World Cup brings with it a sense of deja-vu and finality. Questions are raised and decisions are made.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry stepped off the plane and the deja-vu hit him like a punch to the stomach. The dry, warm air, the noise of his team behind him, the familiar weight of his kit bag and the urgent yells of the reporters at the bottom of the stairs. It was like Russia all over again, four years ago, and it made him feel slightly giddy and more than slightly sick.

If Russia was the beginning, however, this felt very much like the end. Or, the beginning of the end, anyway. The thought was strange, like it didn’t quite fit into the overall joyfulness of this moment. England was once again falling in love with their team, their golden captain, and despite the cold in his native London, the country was reliving the hope of summer of 2018. A few faces had changed, people had retired, but the core of the team – Harry, Dele, Eric, Winks, Sancho, Hendo – was still there, slipping into the familiar banter within minutes of boarding the team plane. Harry knew this would be the last time they’d all be together, an inevitable finality that no-one wanted to think about. Not quite yet, anyway.

Gareth was there, too, right behind him, a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder, a perfunctory, weary smile for the cameras on his lips. They’d sat together on the plane, away from the boisterous younger men, both grinning at the excitement of the fresh faced boys – children, really – excited for their first World Cup. Gareth had caught his eyes at one point, and there was understanding there, and his hand had squeezed Harry’s, grounding him.

‘Harry,’ Gareth said now, his breath tickling Harry’s neck. ‘Let’s go, everyone needs to rest.’

Harry nodded and led the way to the bus waiting for them, waving as the cameras flashed in his direction. The bus was air-conditioned and dark, and he closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to become slow and steady. He felt Gareth lower himself next to him, heard Dele’s unmistakable laughter behind him, and allowed himself to be immersed in the comforting familiarity of it all.

*

Their rooms were, as always, adjacent, and Harry quickly discovered the connecting door to be unlocked. Gareth was at some meeting with the rest of the coaching team, so he tossed his bags aside and slid under Gareth’s duvet, his head heavy from the long flight. He wasn’t quite so young anymore, and flights were becoming more tiring, the airplane air dry and stifling. He pressed his face into the cool pillow, allowed the quiet whir of the air-conditioning unit to lull him into a state of half-wakefulness.

He must have fallen asleep properly, because when he woke up a short while later, Gareth was pressed against him, one arm holding Harry tight against his chest, breathing slow and deep. Harry turned around, carefully, finding himself alert and rested but not wanting to wake Gareth up quite yet. The wall clock showed it was 6 PM, so they had an hour or so before dinner. And gods knew Gareth needed some rest after weeks of preparing for the trip. He looked exhausted even now, a crease between his eyebrows suggesting his sleep was not restful. Harry enjoyed moments like these, the quiet moments they shared when they could, when their timetables aligned. In the earlier days, they were filled with heated desire, with needing each other so desperately they were left spent and hoarse and barely functional the following morning. He remembered the first time he watched Gareth sleep, fascinated by the way the manager’s face became younger, vulnerable. Gareth had laughed at that over breakfast, calling it slightly creepy, but from then on Harry tried to wake up earlier.

‘You’re staring again’, Gareth muttered, eyes still closed. ‘Go back to sleep’.

‘I’ve slept enough.’

One bleary hazel eye opened.

‘You’re insufferable, Kane.’

‘Yes. And I really want to kiss you’.

Gareth obliged, and he was pliant and responsive as Harry wrapped his arms around him. They were both still sleep-lazy, and the kiss was sweet, almost chaste. Harry reveled in it just as much as in their more heated kisses, knowing that he was only one who was permitted to see Gareth like this.

‘We should get dressed’, Gareth muttered, which elicited an annoyed humph from Harry. ‘Come on. We can’t stay in bed all evening.’

‘We aren’t that old yet.’

‘Speak for yourself - I feel utterly broken.’

Gareth sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He stretched, and Harry couldn’t help admiring the lean body, the lightly muscled back. Whatever Gareth said about his age, he was in great shape, even if he was starting to complain about various injuries coming back to haunt him. Harry reached out and ran his hand down Gareth’s spine, and Gareth arched into the touch in an utterly feline movement.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Harry said, just because he wanted to, and because he always felt he didn’t say it often enough. And he was, Harry thought so from day one, from his long legs to the expressive face and full lips and gentle, kind eyes.

Gareth stilled - it made Harry’s heart ache, that this man didn’t believe that he was indeed beautiful. It was partly what made Harry say it again and again, with a single-minded stubbornness, despite Gareth’s gruff responses about ‘not being bloody David Beckham’.

‘Come on,’ Gareth reached for his clothes. ‘Let’s go eat’.

*

The matches were due to start in a week, and the draw was brutal. Spain was first, of course it was. Harry felt the responsibility settle on his shoulders, the weight heavy and ever-present but not quite as unbearable as it had seemed in Russia. He found himself enjoying that first week of grueling training, the pleasant soreness at the end of the day. He didn't think about the first match looming, only a few days away; he spent his evenings playing Fornite with Dele, piled onto Dele's bed with him and Eric and Winks. The latter two complained vociferously but were there nonetheless, and Harry knew that the companionship, the long-standing friendship, made the days of waiting a little bit easier to endure. And after he left the room, Dele curled up, still dressed, under Eric's arm, he found Gareth waiting. Gareth refused to keep him up late, even when Harry openly begged him, and was gentle and patient, kneading the sore calves and kissing the nagging ankle. More often than not, Harry would fall asleep with those hands on him, comforting and knowing exactly how to work the tight knots out of his back and neck and thighs.

And if he did wake up before Gareth, and reminded him he knew exactly how to make him sigh and arch his back and whisper Harry's name before he was even fully awake, well... Gareth didn't seem to mind him not getting his nine hours of sleep then.

Spain arrived in a whirlwind of press conferences and Lions' Den filming and too little time to do anything but train and eat and sleep. Harry was asleep before Gareth got back in the evenings, passing out cold without getting undressed and wondering, in the morning of the match, how he ended up naked and under the blanket. Gareth only tutted and ushered him into his kit, saying something about the match that was only three hours away. Harry felt detached, like he wasn't really him, his mind empty and his body oddly light. He watched as Dele piled scrambled eggs onto his plate and ate mechanically, not really tasting his breakfast. Hendo stared at him across the table, one eyebrow raised quizzically. He nodded and tried to smile, but Hendo only grinned back sardonically and mouthed something like looked like "bullshit".

The changing room was electrifying that afternoon. Harry went through the usual routine; warm shower to soothe his muscles, underwear, shorts, t-shirt, left sock, left boot, right sock, right boot. He made sure he'd taped his ankle carefully and, finally, pulled the captain's armband over his bicep. Gareth was already hovering in the doorway, suit and all, and Harry couldn't believe the man hadn't already melted in the heat.

'Right, lads,' Gareth began. 'I don't really have much to say. You're good. Really good. Believe that today, yes? Most of us have been through this already, but to the new boys - enjoy it. Drink it it and let it feed your belief in yourselves. Dier, try and clobber Ramos without getting booked. Winksy, behave. Pickford, don't be an idiot. Harry, do what you do best. Let's win this thing.'

And they did, to the deafening screams of 'Southgate You're the One' that filled the stadium as soon as the whistle went. Even Ramos, hobbling awkwardly because he, in Eric's words, "just bounced off me, ref, isn’t my fault at all!", grasped Harry's hand and nodded in respect. Harry found himself singing along with the unrelenting English crowds, Hendo laughing next to him, muddied but ecstatic.

Their next match wasn’t for four days yet, so that night, Gareth finally caved in and spent a good part of the night taking Harry apart inch by inch, Harry's moans muffled by the hotel pillow. Gareth whispered about how good Harry was, whispered filthy things that the newspapers would combust over if they knew. When Harry finally came, sobbing and exhausted, clutching Gareth's arms so tight he left bruises, the sun was already rising.

No-one came knocking the next morning, as they usually did, demanding attention and bringing the latest social media gossip and videos from back home. Harry has always suspected that at least some of his team-mates knew, and he thought if that was the case, he loved every single one of them for pretending otherwise. He lay still, not wanting to open his eyes, feeling the late morning sun warm his face, Gareth's sleep-warm body pressed against his back. He knew when Gareth finally woke up, felt a kiss pressed to the back of his neck, feather-light.

'Are Dier and Dele up yet?', Gareth asked quietly.

'Not heard their shower. You hungry?'

'Nah. I am going to go for a swim. Join me?'

They spent the late morning splashing about in the indoor pool, not really swimming at all, laughing and still giddy from the win the previous day. Dele leapt into the pool just before lunch, all exuberant energy and loud, out-of-tune renditions of 'It's Coming Home'. Soon enough, most of the other boys joined them, and Harry remembered the inflatable unicorns and felt that uncomfortable heartache again.

*

It was Germany next, and an aggressive, exceedingly physical game. Harry got knocked down by a defender built like a brick shithouse twenty minutes into the first half. He lay on the ground, winded, fighting to force some air into his lungs and eyes wide with panic. The physios milled around him, their voices blurring into a single wall of background noise. He desperately wanted quiet, wanted everyone to step away and let him breathe.

'...Harry? Kane! Kane, are you okay?', Hendo's voice broke through the noise as Harry inhaled, deep and gasping. He sat upright and promptly bent over, heaving nothing but bile onto the turf. Hendo stared at him, then passed him a bottle of ice-cold water.

'Am fine,' Harry said through gritted teeth. He told himself he wasn't going to be sick again. He wasn't.

He could see Gareth on his feet at the opposite end of the field, Dier holding him back by his arm and saying something into his ear.

'Mr. Kane, can you continue?', the ref asked, face twisted with concern. Harry saw the German arsehole smirk and nodded. Fuck him if he thought he'd take England's captain out with a single tackle. He felt a little better once the bastard was shown a red card and marched off.

Winsky, of course, promptly got booked for sliding under another German crony with a shit-eating grin and what Harry sure was a muttered 'fucking German wankers'. They drew the game nil-nil and it felt like they'd won some kind of battle.

Gareth seemed calm in the debrief, ordering the boys to rest and eat and take the following day easy. It wasn't until they Harry walked through the door that connected their rooms that the facade fell and Harry realised that the manager was more furious than he'd ever seen him.

'Take your shirt off,' Gareth said, throwing his kit bag aside.

'What?'

'For fuck's sake. Take it off, you idiot, I want to see what that defender did.'

The bruise was, Harry had to admit, rather spectacular. It blossomed across his ribs, red and purple, and hurt something bad. Gareth inhaled, his fingers gentle tracing the bruise.

'Ribs?' he asked, quickly.

'Pretty sure they ain't broken. Med team seems to think so too.'

'Harry..!'

'Gareth!' Harry retorted, mimicking Gareth's indignation. Then sighed, letting the tiredness wash over him. 'I. Am. Fine. Really. It's a little sore, but there's no lasting injury.'

Gareth nodded, seemingly only half-convinced. He was on edge, Harry knew that, knew Gareth well enough after all these years to understand the coursing adrenaline and the nerve-wracking nature of watching your own team from the sidelines. The silence is puncture but the shrill ring of Gareth's mobile phone.

'...yes?' Gareth answered, looking Harry over one more time before walking over to the window. 'Yes, he's okay. A little bruised and told off. Yeah. I will do. Are the kids okay?'

Harry shook his head and walked over to the bed, stretching his tired limbs across it and wincing as the skin on his chest complained. He both wanted to fall into a deep, sleepless slumber, and walk across the corridor to give Winksy a hug. He could hear Dele on the phone in the next room, Dier's low voice adding something now and again.

'Alison sends her best,' Gareth said as he walked into the bedroom, pulling at his tie as he made his way to the wardrobe. 'She was worried'.

'I love her, Gareth, but I don't need another mum,' Harry smiled gently. Gareth humphed and busied himself with packing his bag for an early departure the following morning.

He loved Alison, really, loved her for the generosity and the understanding smile with which she received Gareth in the early hours of the morning when Harry drove him home. The way her eyes did not blame him as Gareth pressed a kiss to his lips and went back to his family, even when his shirt was creased and his body bore the marks of their lovemaking.

“You're a good man, and you make him happy, Harry,” Alison had said once, when three glasses of wine had made her talkative and open. “I wouldn't begrudge him, or you, that happiness. And I trust you enough to ensure he'll always come home. And give me the sordid details.” He'd laughed at that, at her wink, and since then had not been quite so frightened of the beautiful, imposing woman.

Even so, he'd never been sure what they, Gareth and him, were. There was affection, love, even, understanding of the type that only two people who'd been through similar experiences could share. For years, they'd had stolen nights and long phone conversations and the occasional dinner in central London. Harry couldn't imagine his life without those things now, without Gareth. Gareth had made himself a part of Harry's routine, a part that had been filled by Kate and the girls before all of that went to shit. He'd long stopped blaming himself for the end of that relationship, if not for the pain he'd caused the girls. He blamed Kate for not being understanding like Alison, and it was unfair, he knew that - Kate was young and jealous and Alison was, well, quite a unique woman.

'You're thinking loudly', Gareth said as he sat on the bed, a towel wrapped around his narrow hips.

'Just thinking about Alison'.

'What, going to steal my wife, are you?'

Harry laughed.

'You know she gave me her blessing, Christmas 2019? You'd gone to pick up the kids and she'd had a lot of wine. She knew, even then, and told me I made you happy, so it was fine.'

'I know. She's a smart woman - it's what made me fall in love with her in the first place. I think she knew even before I did. In fact, it was her who encouraged me to act on it, said she was fed of up me mooning over you like a, and I quote, 'lovesick, horny teenager'.'

'I can't imagine how she can... I mean, I wouldn't.'

'What?' Gareth lowered himself onto one elbow, and Harry automatically began to trace his jaw with the tips of his fingers. The coarse stubble felt good against his skin, oddly soothing.

'Be that good about it all. I think I'd react the way Kate did.'

'But you don't mind that I'm still with Alison'.

'It's different. She's your wife.'

'Not different at all,' Gareth shrugged. 'Seriously, what's gotten into you?'

'A third-life crisis?'

Gareth's eyebrows lifted in amusement.

'I think you are doing the crisis thing wrong, skipper. Might want to buy an expensive car or something.'

They settled in for the night, the muted TV on some kind of news channel, and Gareth scrolling through his emails, as he always did before going to sleep.

'Seriously, though, it's been four years and soon it'll all be over,' Harry began, and he wasn't quite sure why now, of all times. 'I mean, I'm a month or so away from retirement, and I have no idea where it's all going. I won't even have an excuse to see you again.'

Gareth set his phone aside, patient as ever.

'Do you need one? You know you can just turn up, or I can always drive to your house.'

'I know. But the media...'

'We're not going to kiss in front of the cameras any time soon, no. Other than that, I have no idea why you think we should care about the gutter press' speculation. I would actually pay good money to see what happens if they try and contact Alison with questions. She can be quite...eloquent...when she's annoyed'.

Harry wasn’t sure he could weather such a media onslaught, but decided not to argue for the time being. However, Gareth’s words settled his concerns a little. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, his head nestled in the crook of Gareth’s arm.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry was benched for the next game; Russia. They won, and he was happy for the team, really, he was, revelling in the youthful exuberance of the new recruits and in the tentatively emerging hope that they could actually do really well this time round. Still, it felt strange to be watching a game from the bench, a surreal sort of sensation of adrenaline rushing through his system and his body poised for an explosion of movement. He forced himself not to fidget, laughed along with Trent and was quietly proud of Hendo’s captaining. Once the fans had filed out, he went for a run, just because he needed to do something, to let out the nagging tension coursing under his skin. 

He walked back into the hotel drenched with sweat and pleasantly tired, ready for a meal and a celebration that would undoubtedly be subdued, what with a game in two days’ time. 

He found Dele and Dier in his room with what seemed like a kilo of absolutely team-nutritionist-forbidden chocolate and bottles of cold lemonade. 

“Haz, where’d you been?” Dele said through a mouthful. “The Belgians gave us this stuff, it’s amazing. Pretty sure they’re trying to make us fat so we’d lose. Or, you know, poison us.”

“I’m not convinced Jan and Toby are that devious,” Dier laughed, but shoved a square of chocolate into his mouth as well. “Also I’m sure it’s not poisoned, we’ve been eating it for a couple of hours now. For, you know, science.”

“How the hell did you two get in?”, Harry asked, reaching for a towel he’d thrown onto the armchair by the entrance.

“Gareth has the master key, remember? You looked fucking miserable today, we thought you might want the company,” Dele tossed a bottle at Harry. “He’s out all evening, some sort of press thing. How are the ribs?”

“Yeah, fine,” Harry shrugged. “Fornite? A film?”

“Let’s watch something. You choose.”

Harry flicked through Netflix. Dele, meanwhile, nestled himself into Dier’s side, a small smile on his lips. Harry swore if he wasn’t there, Dele would start purring or something. The affection between the two had been clear to everyone for years; the way Dele’s eyes shone when he looked at Eric, Eric’s gruff protectiveness of the younger lad, the proprietary manner in which they touched one another. He didn’t want to presume, of course, but he’d have bet his yearly salary that the two were sleeping together. There were enough jokes going around to that effect, so he wasn’t the only one thinking that, of course. 

“Here,” he said, choosing some mindless action movie and flopping himself across the bed. “Pass me that chocolate.”

By the time Harry had grabbed a quick shower and the movie was half way through, they were high on sugar and adrenaline. That was when Hendo and Trent snuck in with some beer they used to toast to the day’s victory. And, again, it felt bittersweet, this longing to remember their antics in Russia and the unspoken realisation that their time as a team was coming to an end. Harry saw it in the sadness in Hendo’s eyes, in Trent’s too-loud laugh, in the way Dele and Eric’s hands were clasped, white-knuckled, between them. 

They fell asleep in a heap on Harry’s bed, Dele drooling over Eric’s chest and Trent’s arm thrown over Harry’s shoulder. There wasn’t much space, but it had seemed like no-one really wanted to go back to their rooms. Harry was glad, even if he was squeezed uncomfortably between Trent and Hendo, glad for the friendship of this odd group of men with whom he could share his last few weeks of professional career.

The grey morning light was just beginning to stream through the window when the connecting door opened, waking Harry. He waved at Gareth and shushed him, carefully untangling himself from Trent. The younger man turned around and curled up like a cat, his head butting Hendo’s armpit in the process. Harry suppressed a laugh and padded over to Gareth’s room, closing the door behind him. 

“Did you just get back?”, he whispered, taking in Gareth’s suit.

“Yes, a few things I had to deal with. No, nothing you need to be concerned about. Go get some sleep, I’ll finish my emails.”

Harry climbed into the bed, waiting until Gareth undressed and joined him, iPad in tow. He fell asleep to the quiet sound of Gareth’s typing. 

*

A loud scream woke him, followed by a weight that landed squarely on his legs. He swore, bolting upright, and walloped Dele across his head. 

“Gerroff me, you idiot,” he laughed, and then realised he was in Gareth’s room, in his bed, with Dele bouncing up and down excitedly and Hendo and Trent peeking through the door. A cold shiver ran down his spine. 

“Guys, what...?”

“Get up, we’re late for shooting practice,” Dele announced. 

He seemed oddly nonplussed about finding Harry in their manager’s bed. Then again, football was a bit gay at the best of times, and they’d been occupying Harry’s bed, so he could hardly be blamed for wanting to find somewhere more comfortable. He exhaled, relieved that at least they didn’t walk in on him giving Gareth a morning blowjob. He remembered the open tactility of Dele and Dier and wondered whether there was a very specific reason Dele was unsurprised by this turn of events. He envied Dele his openness, his unapologetic ability to just...be Dele. No questions asked. 

Still, he made a mental note to lock all the doors from now on. 

*

Harry was bursting with nervous energy. It was the night before Paraguay and he was pacing Gareth’s room like a large animal trapped in a too-small cage, and probably taking up just as much space. 

“I’m not starting on the bench, Gareth.”

“Harry, it’s not negotiable.”

“I’m fine!”

“I’m not saying you’re not, Harry. I need you rested and fit for the upcoming games.”

“I can’t fucking sit out two games!”

“I’ll bring you on if you’re needed, okay?” Gareth ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I can’t risk you.”

“You’re not being objective.”

“No, I’m not,” Gareth said, and there was steel in his voice. “I’m sorry if seeing you arse over tit in the air was terrifying. I’m sorry if I’m worried about your health. That was always going to be the case, regardless of...this,” he motioned at the air between them. 

Harry walked up to him, stepping into Gareth’s space and making him back up against the wall. His hands grabbed the fabric of Gareth’s shirt and held tight, pulling Gareth flush against him. 

“Promise me you won’t make any stupid decisions just because we are sleeping together.”

Something flared in Gareth’s eyes, an unreadable emotion. 

“Do not question my management,” Gareth said, quietly, calmly. It felt like the quiet before a storm. “Harry, do you understand?”

Harry stepped away, his anger still raw. He couldn’t read Gareth’s expression, and that somehow made him even angrier. At himself or Gareth or the stupid German, he didn’t know. 

“For fuck’s sake, Gareth. Let me do my job, okay? I didn’t come here to be a bench accessory.”

“And I am still your manager. Don’t you ever forget that, skipper.”

Harry’s nostrils flared, his pride smarting at the knowledge that Gareth was right. He needed to get out on the field and stifle the ever-growing dread that had plagued him ever since they’d arrived here. He didn’t know how to tell Gareth that, that this was his last and only chance to make his mark, to end his career on a high. He felt helpless, and he hated that feeling: he’d been helpless as a child when he was told he was too small and too slow, and he’d promised himself he would never feel helpless again. 

“Harry,” Gareth said, voice too level, which usually indicated he was exceptionally angry, “go run it off. 30 minute interval sprints, full pace. We’ll talk when you come back.”

So Harry ran until his lungs were screaming, until he was on the ground on all fours, gulping down mouthfuls of airs. His head felt clearer, somehow, even if his legs were shaking as he walked back to the hotel. He wasn’t relaxed, not really, just strangely suspended, like he was balancing on a tightrope. But the helpless anger, the desire to scream at someone, anyone, had receded, and he was grateful for that at least. 

Gareth was reading in bed when Harry walked in, already in a pair of soft flannel pyjama bottoms, and Harry found the image quite endearing. 

“Better?,” Gareth asked. 

“Some. I’m sorry for earlier.”

“Want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Not sure if I know,” Harry said, and he felt suddenly heavy and tired. “There’s just too much. The lads, and remembering Russia, and retirement, and trying to figure us out. Like, it’s all happening now and it’s too much.”

Gareth sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. 

“Nothing’s changed. You don’t have to retire now, you know,”

“Gareth, my body isn’t gonna last much longer, and we both know that. Hendo is gonna go too, I know he is, and Dier, maybe. We’ve been through all of this together and it fucking hurts to think this is the end.”

He started pacing again, that nagging dark heaviness in his gut aching and heavy. 

“Come here,” Gareth’s words were little more than a whisper.

Harry did, lowering himself onto the bed. He placed his head on Gareth’s legs, felt his fingers running through his hair. He shut his eyes tight against the building pressure in his throat, and emptied his mind, allowing himself to zero in on the sensation of those fingers and the warm skin of Gareth’s thigh under his cheek. 

“When I made the call to retire, I knew that penalty would define me,” Gareth said, quietly. “I was a failure in everyone’s eyes, but my body was giving in and I just couldn’t go on. It wouldn’t have been fair on me or my family to risk lasting injury. I wanted to prove myself, of course I did, it’s human nature. Alison told me she’d rather have a national disgrace of a husband than an idiot who kept going till he broke his back or ended up with plates holding his legs together. If you feel this is the time to hang up your boots, then that’s that. You know your body better than anyone else.”

Harry felt a tear escape the corner of his eye and sniffled stubbornly. 

“And, Harry, the boys will always be by your side. The friendships we build through these ordeals, they’re forever. I know you had Kate and the girls all sussed out, and I truly am sorry for the role I played in that. But you’re not alone, and you never will be.”

Harry looked up, rising to his knees. Their lips met in a perfect fit, and Harry tasted the saltiness of his own tears on Gareth’s tongue, let him wrap his arms around his shoulders and pull him close as he buried his face in Gareth’s neck. A great, heaving sob escaped Harry’s chest, and Gareth didn’t say anything, held him as Harry cried for the first time in years. He cried for Kate, and for his past, and the uncertain future, and for himself, terrified and teetering on a precipice. 

*

Gareth brought him on after Sancho hobbled off with a cramp. It felt good to be back in the game, the first run sending a rush of endorphins into his muscles as he positioned himself near the goal. It felt right, somehow, with Dele hovering nearby and Dier’s bulk in midfield and Pickford a small, bright-green figure yelling obscenities at the other end. 

They scraped a win, and it had been messy and inelegant, but a win nonetheless. After the game, he was cornered by a reporter, just as he was about to head into the changing room.

“Harry Kane here, can you tell us what this means to you?”

“Yeah, it was a hard game but we pulled through. Good to be back and fit after the small blip.”

“Are you following the media back home?”

“No, we gotta stay focused on the competition.”

“Alright, so you don’t know what’s been said?”

“About how far we will go? Doesn’t really matter at this stage, we’re just taking it day by day”.

The reporter smirked, and Harry found the fellow deeply unpleasant, but smiled cheerfully into the camera and walked away. The safety of the changing room met him with a celebratory roar and a very undressed Harry Winks launching himself into Harry’s arms. He held Winks up with one arm and folded a nearby Trent into an embrace and it, this, felt like home, family. 

Later that night, he struggled to fall asleep, his mind a whirring clockwork of thoughts. He found late evenings the most difficult time, when the other boys had gone to rest and everything was quiet and dark. Gareth wasn’t back yet, and Harry felt the dark press against him, and there was no-where to hide in the silence. No conversations to let himself be drawn into, no Fortnite game or silly prank or the simple business of training to distract him. 

He tossed and turned until he heard the door open, quietly and carefully. Gareth walked in with his shoes in his hands, but saw that Harry was awake. 

“It’s past midnight,” the manager said. He managed to look tired and disapproving simultaneously, which, Harry thought, was quite an achievement. 

“Yeah, can’t sleep. Meetings went okay?”

“A few things to deal with, but yes. Have you eaten?”

“Yep. And before you ask, med team said I’m good as new now. So you’ve no reason to worry.”

Gareth smiled at that, the sort of smile that reached his eyes and illuminated his entire face. Harry loved that smile, the rareness of it. Loved making Gareth smile that way. 

They showered together that night, the hot water soothing Harry’s tired muscles, Gareth’s talented hands exploring every inch of his skin. He let those hands brush away the heaviness, if only temporarily, let himself get lost in the sensation of Gareth’s lips tracing his spine, the fingers caressing the taut muscles of his thighs, the tendrils of warmth that snuck into him and warmed him to the core. He held on the wet wall as Gareth guided him to an orgasm, and it was a slow thing that that engulfed him, wave-like. It left him dizzy and panting and boneless in Gareth’s arms, who swatted away his feeble attempts to return the favour. 

“I love you,” Harry whispered as the shower rained blissfully hot water on them, washing away the day. And, as always, those words felt peculiar, almost as if saying them made all this real, and the enormity of that reality was, even after four years, quite terrifying. 

“I love you too,” Gareth said, exhaling into Harry’s lips and, he was so close Harry could see the specks in his eyes. He needed this closeness, the knowledge he wasn’t alone, so he pulled Gareth close. They stood like that, under the hot rain-shower, for what felt like hours.


	3. Chapter 3

~~~~

Harry winced as the physio touched his ankle. He tried to make the girl believe he was fine and schooled his face into a smile, but the attempt was feeble - she knew him too well by now. She gave his knee a pat, stood up and crossed her arms.

 

“I’ll talk to Gareth, but we’ll need to wait until at least tomorrow’s roll-call.”

 

“Any chance you can tell him I’m okay?”

 

“Nope. He’ll skin me alive. What happened?”

 

“A big Colombian decided to hump my leg on the 94th minute?”

 

“Ha-ha. It doesn’t look bad, but I can’t make any guarantees. Ice it, and rest tonight. No walking around.”

 

She left Harry sitting on the massage table, frustrated and clutching an ice-bag to his ankle. He tried to rotate his ankle, gingerly, and it didn’t feel like it was badly injured - and of all people, he knew his ankle injuries. He supposed he could be grateful for that, at least. Still, it was an effort to swallow the panic rising steadily in his throat, the shadowy thought of being injured for what could be the biggest game of his career.

 

“Harry?”, Gareth’s head poked around the curtain. He was still in his match suit, previously pristine shirt showing faint green stains where he had hugged the other boys. “You okay? Harriet said it doesn’t look like it’s sprained, but wants to see you first thing tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah. Bugger, eh?”

 

Gareth perched on the table next to Harry.

 

“Dele was desperate to run over, but I left him with the media and made my escape. He’s being Dele, so that will keep the cameras occupied for a while. A quarter-final win, huh?”

 

“Yeah. Remember the last one? Everyone was going crazy.”

 

Gareth laughed quietly, and the sound sent warmth pooling through Harry’s body. The memories of those hot Russian days, the giddiness of that win, were still fresh. Even all those years later. Harry wondered if he’d ever forget that evening, the heat of Gareth’s mouth on his, the swelling, storm-like joy. He still dreamt of it, sometimes, woke up grinning like a complete lunatic, his heart threatening to burst out of him. He wondered if a win would surpass that win, and somehow, weirdly, doubted it. There has been somewhat uniquely exhilarating about defying decades of pretty much subterranean expectations.

 

“What if we make it?”, Harry asked. He wasn’t sure if he was asking himself, or Gareth. It didn’t seem to matter, really.

 

“Then we make it. Play it one game at a time. France won’t be easy, even with their injury problems.”

 

“I need to play. If I can’t... If I can’t, I’m going home. Tomorrow.”

 

“I know,” Gareth said, and he understood, Harry could see it in the gentle hazel eyes. “We will cross that bridge when we get there, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

 

*

 

Harry felt like he was holding court that evening, propped up on his bed and trying to play a game on his laptop but being constantly distracted by an assorted selection of his teammates. Dele and Eric sat on his floor, arguing loudly about the latest iteration of FIFA. Hendo walked in with a bag of Harry’s favourite apples and occupied the only armchair, his long legs somehow taking up most of the room. Trent ran in shortly after, shoved a cold bottle of alcohol-free beer into his hand and flopped onto his bed, chattering away excitedly. Hendo rolled his eyes and promptly deprived Trent of his own bottle while the boy wasn’t looking, received an indignant “oi!” and slapped Trent’s rump in return. It was chaos, but Harry grinned and shook his head. He wasn’t the type to enjoy noise, not usually, but once again he was glad the boys hadn’t left him alone to mope.

 

“We could win this, you know,” Trent announced, and Harry cocked his eyebrow.

 

“Feeling optimistic, kiddo?”

 

“Maybe,” Trent tilted his head head backwards so that he was looking at Harry upside-down. “Gaffer always says it’s about believing in yourself. What d’ya think?”

 

“I don’t, usually. Not about games anyway. Just gotta do our thing, right?”

 

“French bastards keep saying they’re gonna mow us down,” Trent frowned. “Arrogant pricks.”

 

“They’re fucking good though.”

 

“Yeah, well. You gonna miss this?”

 

“Miss what?”

 

“This. The team, the competitions, the banter. It’s been eight years, all of us, together.”

 

Harry nodded, Trent’s words stinging painfully.

 

“Of course. Might have a season or two in me still, though.”

 

He didn’t know why he was lying to Trent, not when he’d decided to retire. His ankle giving way at the end of the last match was just one in a long itinerary of niggles, and only served to confirm his suspicion that his time was coming to an end. But he looked at Trent, the young unlined face twisted with a sardonic smile, and couldn’t make himself say it.

 

“I’m hungry,” Dele announced from where he sat on the other bed, Dier’s head resting on his knees.

 

“When are you not?” Eric sighed, sitting up. “I’ll order. Harry?”

 

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

 

They ate in silence, chicken and vegetables and fruit, and Harry didn’t really taste the food. For him, for them all, food had long become merely fuel. They ate because they needed to; plain, healthy food that was filling but not entirely enjoyable. He longed for the days when he could eat pizza and his favourite pies, when the nutritionist’s lecture about empty calories and quick release carbs didn’t run through his mind with every mouthful. He knew Dele craved croissants, and Dier dreamed about custard tarts, knew they all sacrificed these small pleasures of everyday life for their sport. For the first time in his life, there was an end in sight, and it was a strange feeling. Like it wasn’t really real, none of this, the World Cup and the impeding retirement, and the easy camaraderie.

 

He pondered that as he walked into Gareth’s bedroom, finding the manager sprawled on his front on the bed, fast asleep.

 

He sat down carefully, one hand reaching automatically for skin contact. Gareth was warm, and he made a small annoyed sound when Harry ran the tips of his fingers up his spine, tickling.

 

“What time is it?”, Gareth said, voice low and sleepy.

 

“Eight. You won’t sleep at night at this rate.”

 

“Just tired,” Gareth sat up, stretched. “How’s the ankle?”

 

“Fine. Meetings went alright?”

 

“The usual. Shower and sleep? I’ve got emails to do, but you should rest, been a long day.”

 

Harry smiled, but didn’t move. The late evening light was streaming through the window, turning Gareth’s eyes a tawny hue. Harry remembered the first time they woke up together, the very different cold winter sunshine, the way they held each other under layers of blankets and kissed until they were dizzy with one another.

 

Gareth shook his head, amused, and drew Harry close. They fell onto the blanket in a familiar tangle, Gareth’s back arching as Harry’s arms went around him, as he sought even more contact. He needed to be grounded, needed to feel this was real. He felt it in his blood, the tension threatening to snap, betrayed by the way his hands desperately clawed at Gareth’s skin and begged silently for more. Gareth read him accurately, in the inexplicable way he always did, spun him around and straddled his hips and held his arms locked down as he kissed Harry.

 

It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it bruised and left Harry gasping, babbling something that sounded like both a plea and Gareth’s name. He let Gareth guide him, let the manager read his need better than Harry could verbalise it. And Gareth seemed to be everywhere, his lips on Harry’s face and his thighs holding him down and his fingers making Harry’s nerve endings short-circuit. His voice, that calm manager’s tone intact, saying something Harry was not hearing.

 

And Harry begged, begged in a way he never thought his pride would ever let him, begged filthily until even Gareth’s famed control seemed to slip. Until those hazel eyes were dark with want and those long-fingered hands lost their gentleness. He begged until Gareth made him hurt, and he welcomed that pain as it burst, red-bright, through the numbness of uncertainty. He whispered Gareth’s name, again and again, until nothing else came out of his throat except for a ragged half-sob, until his body was finally released, arrow-like, from the tension that had been holding it trapped.

 

He held Gareth then, refusing to let him move away, despite the quiet muttered complaints about being heavy. His mouth traced Gareth’s cheekbone lazily, the stubble a pleasant burn against his lips. He wanted to stay like this, feeling Gareth inside of him and around him, cocooned in a small dark hotel room so far away from home and the media and all the other complications.

 

*

 

Mbappe netted the ball within exactly 87 seconds. Harry screamed in frustration, heard Pickford swear elaborately at the defence line, echoing his frustration. Next to Harry, Dele winced and shook his head.

 

The French had pierced right through a spot in their defence Gareth had been pointing out for weeks. They’d taken them apart with three expert passes, elegantly and brutally.

 

He saw Gareth gesturing, calm as ever despite the nightmarish beginning, bringing his hands together and then drawing them apart.

 

“Go wide,” Harry yelled at Dele, who understood and waved at Rashford.

 

Seamlessly, Winks moved up the pitch, reading the slight change in formation quickly. Harry thanked the gods for their many years of plying together, which allowed for almost telepathic communication between most of the squad members.

 

Mbappe made another move mere minutes later, only to be met by Dier, who scowled at him in a way that made ever Harry somewhat fearful. The Frenchman seemed to decide he didn’t quite want to go one-on-one with the notably larger man and passed backwards. Harry exhaled, not realising he’d been holding his breath.

 

Harry dodged a blue shirt, and spotted Dele making a run. It took him a moment to compute ankles and direction, and then he was sprinting off, screaming internally at Dele. Pass. Pass. Pass, goddam-

 

His foot touched the ball and he didn’t have time to think. A blur of blue to his right and left, French cursing in his ears as his second touch, solid and practiced, made contact with the ball. The goalkeeper dove, the ball floating neatly between his hands.

 

Harry felt Dele leap onto his back, whooping, shushed him and motioned the rest of the team to fall back into formation. His lungs burned, sweat poured into his eyes as he scanned the game, scanned the grim-faced opponents who were promising to make this a real challenge.

 

Just after half time, Dier was sent off with a bloody eyebrow and by now Harry had been tackled so many times he’d lost count. His bruised ribs ached something bad, and he desperately wanted to see Harriet and her assortment of painkillers. He bit his cheek to keep himself focused, running through Gareth’s instructions.

 

Keep them busy. Wear them out. Nullify their youth and speed.

 

Dele ran down the right, exchanging passes with Sancho in that elegant, mischievous manner the two seemed to play with. He feigned left and dodged a defender, tricking the ball past two pairs of legs in white short and shooting across to Sancho, who spun with the ball and sprinted.

 

Harry could only watch as Sancho was left unmarked, as he stopped and calculated the angle and kicked a stunning curveball into the net.

 

The noise was deafening. And then, through the cacophony of songs and chants and screaming, building like a swelling wave -

 

It’s coming home! It’s coming...

Football’s coming home...

 

A chorus of voices, male and female, young and old, joining together until the entire England stand was singing in unison. Harry had never heard anything like this, a thunderous song that sent shivers down his spine.

 

He made eye contact with Gareth and saw that there were tears in the manager’s eyes.

 

The rest of the game was a blur, interspersed with moments of almost painful vividness. A burst of pain as studs brushed his calf. A hoarse scream as Rashford scored. A cramp in his left thigh that made him clench his teeth and swallow down lungfuls of air.

 

And, finally, the whistle.

 

Harry collapsed to his knees, breathing ragged as he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the turf. He roared into the grass, with joy and exhaustion and utter disbelief that this was over. They were in a World Cup final.

 

He felt the boys pile onto him, felt the mad crush of bodies and heard the voices screaming and swearing and there was laughter, so much laughter as they tried to disentangle themselves from one another. And, then, as he was able to finally get upright again, there was Gareth.

 

Harry folded Gareth into his arms, ignoring the fact that he was muddy and wet with sweat, and Gareth’s face was damp as he nuzzled Harry’s neck. For that moment, the stadium ceased to exist.

 

*

 

That evening was pandemonium. They had four days before the final and Gareth let them drink, just for this one evening, one drink each. They hadn’t drank in so long that it was all it took for Winks to be singing a terrible rendition of the infamous Atomic Kitten song, and for Dele to be performing what could only be a lap dance, ensconced firmly in Eric’s laps. Eric, stoic as ever, was sporting three stitches on his eyebrow, and held the writhing Dele with a pained amusement.

 

“If I have to hear that I turn Winks on ever again...”, Harry heard a laugh. Gareth was leaning against a doorframe. He’d changed into jeans and a white shirt that emphasised his muscled arms and shoulders.

 

“You’ve endured years of drunk middle-aged men singing that,” Harry responded. “Thanks, though, for this. I think we all needed to relax a bit.”

 

“Mmhm. Alison sends her regards. She’s come down with a nasty cold, so she won’t be flying in for the final, but the kids should be here tomorrow.”

 

“That’s great. How are you feeling?”

 

“Like it’s all a dream and I’ll wake up soon to find out I’m still on the plane here?”

 

“Yeah, same, pretty much. It was insane out there.”

 

Winks stumbled and collapsed off the table, falling squarely onto Stirling, who carefully placed the smaller man onto his feet with a placating pat to his head. In the corner, Rashford was talking animatedly with Sancho. Hendo was curled up on the sofa, apparently passed out cold from exhaustion and alcohol, his face serene despite the noise in the room.

 

“I’ll miss them all too,” Gareth said, scanning the room. “We’ve all been so lucky to have one another.”

 

Harry swallowed, emotional with drink or tiredness or joy, he wasn’t quite sure.

 

“To the bitter end, then.”

 

“To the happy end.”


	4. Chapter 4

The final was swiftly approaching, and Harry felt the familiar cold calm settle over him. Whereas he was always jittery in the first stages of a tournament, the latter ones seemed to be too serious for nerves. He slept like the dead, and was grateful for the lack of dreams, pleasant or otherwise. The training petered off as they went into the 48 hours of active recovery, with only a few yoga sessions and light runs scheduled. Gareth wanted them as rested as possible, but also had to negotiate the fact he was dealing with two dozen highly excitable and adrenaline-filled young men. The irony was that that they were playing fucking Croatia, of all teams; but this helped diffuse the situation somewhat – it supplied endless bogeyman gifs in the Whatsapp group and jokes about shit hair. 

And as those final two days drew on, the impeding end of his professional career loomed large. He wasn’t planning to do anything as pompous as announce it at the final press-conference, no. The plan was to take a much-needed break and then, quietly, announce that he wasn’t going to return once the season began anew. He didn’t tell the rest of the team, not yet, and he supposed that made him a coward. He knew there was speculation in the press, what with him pushing 30 and with injuries having piled up over the last season. 

He hadn’t read any of the media coverage for weeks, having settled on a self-enforced ban just before their arrival at the World Cup. So when, little over 14 hours before the final, he walked into the dining room and found everyone staring at him, he didn’t know what had happened.

‘Who died?’, he said into the ringing silence. 

‘You’ve not seen the Mail?’, Hendo asked. 

‘Nope. Don’t read that rag. Why?’

Hendo and Trent exchanged a look, and Trent offered Harry his iPhone. 

Of course. Of-fucking-course. 

Not Very Lion-like Behaviour – Harry Kane Spotted Kissing a MAN! 

The headline screamed out at him and for a moment he thought he must have been dreaming, stuck in a particular badly-timed nightmare. He didn’t scroll to the story, didn’t want to throw up in front of his team, not now, when they had to be focused on the game ahead.

He handed Trent his phone back, silent.  
‘There are photos, mate,’ Trent said, more subdued than Harry had ever seen him. ‘I’m sorry. Fucking awful, especially today’. 

‘They’re blurry, though, so they couldn’t identify who…’ Hendo shrugged. ‘You could make something up. Say you were drunk and a friend was helping you home. Camera caught you at a bad angle and so on.’ 

Harry nodded, surprised he wasn’t angry. His first thought was of Gareth, of all the grey mornings when they could have been photographed leaving or arriving each other’s houses. He couldn’t see Gareth in the room, though, and a sliver of concern wriggled its way thought the numbness. 

‘He’s in the conference room, on a call,’ Hendo said, reading Harry’s face. ‘I’m really sorry.’ 

Harry nodded and turned on his heels.

Gareth was on the phone, his back turned to the door. He was nodding to whoever was on the other end, and, as Harry walked in, said – 

‘I’ll call back. Yeah.’

It took one look at Harry’s face for Gareth to understand. 

‘It was the press office. I tried to stall the story until afterwards. I’m sorry.’

‘Everyone keeps saying sorry,’ Harry whispered, his voice hitching. ‘When did you know?’

‘Two weeks ago. The press team said they’d be able to hold it off for a while, but I guess they were wrong.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘I didn’t want to distract you. It’s… We’ll think of something. Harry, it doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t. In the grand scheme of things, people will gossip and forget it. For now it’s just the final, that’s all. We’ll get Hendo to do the press tomorrow, so you can stay focused.’   
Harry nodded. His mind was blank. 

‘Harry, listen to me. It’s going to be okay. Come with me.’ 

Gareth guided Harry back to the dining room, his hand on the base of Harrys back. The boys were still there, and it was quiet, too quiet. 

‘Right, you all,’ Gareth started. Harry was fascinated by the woodwork on the floor, his eyes fixed on a single point. ‘It’s a shit situation, but most of us have been through the tabloid crap, so we know it’ll blow over. What we can’t let it do is destabilise us tomorrow. Croatia will be counting on it, that I can guarantee. Hendo, you okay to take the press in the morning?’

‘Sure, boss,’ Hendo said. ‘Anything else we can do?’

‘Go and get some sleep, all of you,’ Gareth said, and sounded tired. ‘Stretch session at 9AM.’

Dele grasped Harry’s arm as he walked past, and the pressure was oddly comforting. Harry forced himself to look up and smile at the younger man. 

‘Alright, Haz?’, Dele asked.

‘Yeah. You and Eric coming for food and a film tonight?’

‘Sure. No pressure if you want some space, though. Just come let us know’. 

In fact, it was Dele who knocked on his door, a little past eight in the evening. 

‘Eric’s asleep,’ he said, by way of explanation. Harry let him through and they settled on Harry’s bed. Harry tossed the remote at Dele and flicked through the room service menu, but he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t sure why, either – whether it was the tabloid story or the impeding final or a combination of both. He chided himself, numbly – his body needed the food, whether he was hungry or not. 

‘So, you and Gareth, eh?’ Dele said, his eyes on the screen. 

‘What?’ Harry turned to him, and the smile that met him was all Dele, crooked and sardonic. 

‘I’m not the sharpest, Harry, but I can recognise his ass on a photo,’ Dele shrugged. ‘Bit awkward, him being the manager and all, but it’s your funeral.’ 

Harry laughed. 

‘Suppose it is. Fucking Mail, though.’

‘Tell me about it, mate. When Ruby and I broke up… Anyway, one day a brick will fall on the bastard reporter’s head and the world will be a better place for it. How long…?’

‘Since Russia, on and off. Don’t tell him you know, he will murder me.’

‘Makes sense why you two were always hiding around. Does the wife know?’

‘Yeah.’ Harry left it at that, and, thankfully, Dele didn’t press. It felt good now that Dele knew everything, felt right. 

‘Haz? What are you thinking?’

‘I’m going to retire after the Cup,’ Harry said, quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. ‘Only Gareth knows.’

‘Mate, you’re not even thirty yet. You sure?’

‘Yeah. Have been for a while, to be honest. My ankle keeps going, and the doctors don’t think it will last much longer at this rate. Don’t want to be a liability on a massive pay-check’. 

‘Can they operate?’

‘Nah. Too much damage already, and anything radical will mean I can’t play again anyway’. 

‘I’m sorry’.

The uncharacteristic gentleness in Dele’s voice tugged at Harry’s gut. 

‘We’ve had a good run, right?’, Harry grinned, pushing aside the sadness with an almighty mental effort. ‘More than most players get. I’ll always have that, I guess.’ 

‘You sound like bloody Diet, all philosophical-like. He’s been talking about retiring too, the old man.’ 

‘I thought as much. I’ll miss you all.’

‘We’ll still be around. You’re not getting rid of us that easily.’

‘I guess not,’ Harry tossed a pillow at Dele. ‘Let’s get some food’. 

*

Harry closed his eyes and let himself settle into the last few moments of quietness he was going to have in a while, whatever happened. He could hear only the faint thrum of the fans piling into the stands, somewhere far above him, the hushed voices of his teammates making their final preparations. He wasn’t nervous, he never was this close to a game. He loved this state of cold serenity, slipped into it for one last time, and it felt like putting on an old, well-worn pair of jeans. Comfortable, familiar – comforting. He knew what he was doing; he’d trained for this most of his life. 

Water. Socks. Shin guards. The mental check-list he knew by heart now, the familiar ache in his muscles as the adrenaline began to course through his system. 

He breathed deep as he stepped forward, barely noticing the rest of the team dropping into formation behind him. The noise was getting louder, a pounding wall of singing and voices and mishmash of chants. 

‘Good luck’, was all Gareth said; he’d never been a fan of long pep talks before an important game. 

And that was that.  
The sunlight blinded Harry as he stepped out, and he shut his eyes against it for a moment. He felt the roar of thousands of people vibrate through his body, breathed the atmosphere in. Somewhere behind him, Pickford swore quietly. He opened his eyes and saw the England stand; white and red and a single, moving, heaving, screaming mass of people. 

The usual formalities passed in a blur; anthems and hand-shakes and a brief speech by some official or other. Harry didn’t hear or see much beyond the white and red wall of people. 

Then the whistle cut across the noise. 

The first run. The cool emptiness taking over his mind, the single point of focus – the ball. Croatia was the less physical team, granted, but they were small and quick. Harry cringed inwardly as a lithe figure in red-and-white kit dodged Dier’s marking and dashed off. Pickford blocked the attempt easily, but the run set a tone for the game Harry wasn’t terribly keen on.

He loitered at the front of the formation, waiting. His legs screamed, body demanding the exertion it was conditioned to crave. He held it back, preserving energy, and it took his willpower to stop his legs shaking with anticipation. The tension was palpable, the pitch almost silent as the noise of the crowds faded away. He heard every kick, every breath of the men beside him. Heard every fall and every tackle, as if these sounds were amplified. 

Sancho dashed between two Croatian defenders, turning twice, somehow retaining the ball. He made eye contact with Harry, and the fraction of a second was enough. Harry fell back onside, and sure enough, Sancho nodded, briefly, and kicked.

The ball made contact with Harry’s chest, and he spun, dropped his shoulder, and, without thinking, without hesitating, kicked it with all the power he could muster in that instant. He didn’t breathe as the keeper’s fingers brushed the ball, as it bounced off the wood and ricocheted into the net. The roar that filled his ears nearly deafened him, and he found himself under a pile of overheated, sweaty bodies. 

Hendo managed to drag him out and pulled him into a tight embrace, screaming something, voice hoarse. 

And then the game resumed, the residual adrenaline rushing through Harry’s bloodstream, his vision blurry from sweat or tears or both. 

Dele’s slight figure rushing through an onslaught of blue. A flash of white as he dodged, then came down. It didn’t look good, Dele’s face contorted with pain as he sat on the turf, mouth open as he gulped down air. Harry knew that look. The desperate pleading with your own body, shoving away pain for later. He’d seen the way Dele landed on his hip, though, and motioned at Gareth. Barkley was already de-kitting, thankfully. 

Dele had to be all but dragged off the pitch, Dier’s hand carefully guiding him towards the bench. Gareth took hold of his arm, and Dele was shaking his head furiously, his eyes unfocused, lips pulled back from his teeth. He raised a hand at the ref, signalling he needed a couple of minutes. 

‘Del,’ he heard Dier mutter as he jogged up to them, ‘Del, it’s okay. You did well. It’s okay.’

Harry clasped Dele’s shoulder, exchanging a worried look with Eric.

‘Dele, you’re injured. You can’t continue. Go and sit it off, yeah? I’m sorry, you need to sit it out,’ Harry’s voice was calm, controlled, and the control came easily after years of captainship. 

Dele let out a choked laugh and buried his face in Dier’s shoulder, his back shaking. Dier kissed the top of his head, placating. But they didn’t have time, there never was enough goddamn time in these situations. 

‘Thirty seconds’, Harry mouthed at Eric.

Gareth looked at him, a crease between his eyebrows. It was hot, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. 

‘You alright?’, Gareth asked quietly. They were close, so close that Harry could smell the familiar aftershave, the citrusy scent of Gareth’s shampoo. 

‘Yeah. Any formation change?’

‘No, just a straight sub. Harry…’

A hand on Harry’s arm, just over the captain’s armband. The heat of that touch seeped into Harry’s skin, warming him, grounding him. For one moment there was nothing but that single point of contact, and Harry marvelled again at how Gareth had that effect on him. Somehow, he wanted to say something, wanted to tell Gareth how much he loved him, right here, in the middle of an international game, the biggest game of his career. The tips of Gareth’s mouth twitched.

‘I know,’ he said, too quiet for anyone else to hear, ‘I do too. More than you could possibly know’. 

The whistle ripped through the moment, and when Harry jogged back onto the pitch, he was grinning ear to ear.

*

Somehow, against every odd imaginable, they won.

They won the World Cup. The thought raced through Harry’s mind as he lifted the trophy, and the scream that filled the stadium hit him. He was weighed down by the arms of his team-mates, all of whom seemed to want to embrace him at the same moment.

He even managed to ignore the more pointed questions the journalists threw at him as he made his way to the tunnel.

He grinned and nodded and allowed himself, just for the next few hours, not to think. 

*

Harry woke up in a haze. His head spun, and his mouth was so dry it was almost painful. Everything seemed to hurt – his feet, his thighs, his glutes, even his armpits. He opened one eye and the sunlight assaulted him, sending a sharp spear of pain through his head. He didn’t know what time it was; he could barely remember his own name.

‘Morning’, he heard. Gareth. He reached out and the space next him was empty. He cracked one eye open again, carefully. 

Gareth was sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed in a team t-shirt and joggers. 

‘How are you awake?’, Harry whispered. Even speaking made his head hurt.  
‘Paracetamol. Lots of it. There’s water and some pills next to you. And some Vitamin C.’

‘What did I drink last night?’

‘I think you started with tequila shots, and ended with vodka via beer and champagne.’ 

‘Oh, God…’

‘I did warn you, though you likely don’t remember it,’ Gareth laughed.

‘I’m never drinking again. Ever.’ Harry reached for the pills and swallowed them dry. ‘Are the lads all okay?’

‘I think so. I had to drag you back before you passed out cold, and I was quite drunk as well, so… I was going to check in on the younger lads and make sure they’re, well, alive’. 

Harry lowed himself back onto the pillows carefully, then reached out, his hand curving around Gareth’s wrist.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for everything’. 

‘Are you still drunk?’

‘No. But I am stupidly in love with you’. 

Gareth’s warm laughter reverberated through Harry, made him want to pull Gareth close and not let him go to whatever managerial duties awaited him. He was, however, desperately aware of the need to shower and brush his teeth. There was also, undoubtedly, the media furore to be dealt with. Of both the good and the bad kinds.

Gareth thumbed the inside of Harry’s palm, firm and soothing. 

‘I can’t stay,’ he said, ‘however much I want to. We’ll have tonight thought. And tomorrow. And whenever else you need me’.

Harry smiled, and allowed himself that moment, a moment of calm before the shit-storm. Gareth, warm and solid and alone with him, the exhaustion settling into his limbs, the throbbing headache – all of it made sense, made him feel alive. 

‘I need to go,’ Gareth said again, rising. 

Harry’s medal was hanging off the chair. And when Gareth turned at the door and smiled at Harry, the joy on his face was almost too much to bear.

*

It wasn’t a media shit-storm. It was worse. 

There were cameras outside the hotel. A reporter cornered Harry in the corridor. Pickford had almost gotten into a fistfight with a pap he caught hiding in the hotel bushes outside of Harry’s window. Dier threatened someone who’d asked about the Daily Mail story. And that was all before breakfast (which, admittedly, came about after lunchtime). 

Half the team were inhaling their food while the other half looked vaguely green as they pushed their meals around their plates when Gareth walked in. All heads turned to him.

‘Press conference in 30 minutes’, he announced, to a communal groan. ‘If anyone needs to throw up, I suggest you get it out of the way now. They expect everyone there, no exceptions’.

So there was no hiding from it, Harry thought. 

‘Laugh it off,’ Gareth turned to him, clearly having caught the train of his thoughts. ‘Say it’s the usual Daily Mail tripe, they post shit like this almost every day. The less we make of it, the less they will be interested.’

The room was quiet as the squad filed in. They all looked somewhat worse for wear; Harry wasn’t sure why the heck the press team didn’t give them at least a day to recover. 

Gareth was sat behind him, and Harry was thankful for this small mercy at least. 

A flash of camera. Another. Harry’s head was splitting. 

‘Harry, first of all, congratulations’, a young female voice, someone he couldn’t see with the lights blinding him. ‘What does it feel like?’

‘It will feel pretty amazing after we’ve all recovered from last night’s celebrations’.

Polite laughter.

‘Gareth, can you comment on the journey so far?’

‘It’s been quite an experience. We’ve built on the previous World Cup, we’ve matured, we brought up young English talent. It’s all I wanted for this team, and it’s been a privilege to stand alongside them. They are an amazing group of men’.

‘What’s next?’ 

‘I think the sky is the limit for this team and the youngsters in the system’. 

‘Harry, have you any comment on the Daily Mail story published two days ago?’

Harry breathed. Calm and slow.

‘We’re pretty used to manufactured “scandals”, so… I don’t see what the issue is, besides the fact that they seem to think it’s okay to have their photographers stalk people’. 

‘Are you admitting it’s you on those photos?’

‘I’m saying I fail to see why it needed a front-page story. The day before the final. I feel like there’s more to discuss than my actual or imagined private life, right now? Or has iTV become a tabloid like the Mail, Paul?’ 

A rumble of laughter from his team-mates. More flashes of cameras. 

‘It would be a big deal for international football, though’.

‘As opposed to an England win in the World Cup?’ 

Silence. Harry hoped his voice hadn’t wavered; hoped he did not seem flustered despite his insides twisting unpleasantly. 

‘What Harry is saying,’ Gareth stepped in calmly, ‘is that as a team we have never commented on tabloid speculation. I implore you all to focus on what matters right now, and that is this team’s incredible performance at the highest level in the world. We’ve had a very positive relationship with the press this campaign, and I hope it can continue, but I cannot, and will not, tolerate intrusive practices against any of my players. Next question?’

No-one dared to ask anything about the story after that intervention. Harry did not look at the reporters as he walked out, allowed the cameras to get into his face and smiled, stubbornly refusing to allow them to capture any vulnerability. 

*

They were going back home.

Home. Harry wondered what that word meant to him these days. Home was Dele and Dier in the corner, Dele’s legs thrown across Dier’s, listening to music on Dele’s phone. Home was Hendo and Trent, playing chess at the dinner table. It was Pickers Facetiming his little one. It was Gareth, who had woken him up with a kiss full of languid morning sweetness, the hours they’d spent holding each other as the sky turned from black to bright blue. It was the familiarity of that, the mornings together, the waking up to Gareth’s muttered curses about being late and the clothes strewn across what he now thought of as their room.

It had been a few weeks, but felt like years.   
Going back felt strange. It didn’t feel like going back at all, but rather like plunging into the unknown. 

‘Harry?’ Gareth asked, looking up from hip iPad. ‘All good?’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do after tomorrow’, Harry said. Gareth put the device aside, giving Harry his full attention.

‘You are going to go away on a holiday with Hendo and Trent. When you’re back from the Maldives, you will spend a weekend with me – the kids and Ali will be with her parents. We will talk. Speak to Poch, together, about announcing your retirement.’ 

‘Got it all planned out, huh?’

‘Of course’. Gareth’s hand covered Harry’s, comforting. ‘We’ll weather this together. I can’t do anything about Kate leaving, but I will always be here. And Ali.’ 

‘Well, that’s just a bit weird.’

‘Maybe. Who am I to judge’.

Harry leaned back, ignoring the pricking in his eyes. It was over. Somehow, they’d won, they’d survived, and he knew what he needed to do now. Knew the words he’d speak to the cameras, however heavy they might feel then and there. He knew it was for the best. He knew that this was the right decision to make. 

It didn’t feel any easier. 

It might, with time, he supposed. It might even be made simpler for the fact of Gareth, a stalwart in his life. He wouldn’t be lost. He trusted Gareth. Trusted the man with his life, had done so for years.

Harry sat up straight and opened a text message to Pochettino.


End file.
